The birds are gone. Soil
blooded to rustfruit, eyebright,
a vast intention heavy in the mackerel
grass, on the silent-screaming wire,
the concrete sky, the sun that slow bomb.
You are half my living now
the coming word, the deep and
bastard mind, making each darkness
felt, each day ordinal.
Every thrust of mine You met. God, that seeds the hydrogen, seed me.
Copyright © 2018 by Nam Le
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission
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